


Ricochet

by MisterTiberius



Series: Maybe This Isn't The End At All [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Harold Finch, Blood and Injury, Dark John Reese, Finch Shot, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Harold Finch, Idiots in Love, Injured Finch, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Harold Finch, POV Lionel Fusco, Protective John Reese, Protective Sameen Shaw, Shaw Being A Badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterTiberius/pseuds/MisterTiberius
Summary: The two ex-operatives were tearing through Rashida's ranks with a viciousness that had Fusco's steel nerves quaking with unease. In the feeble hanging lights, they looked every bit like bloodthirsty demons, silencing pleads and cursing alike with truly grotesque methods. Their clothes and faces were splattered with blood, hands dripping crimson.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese
Series: Maybe This Isn't The End At All [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546288
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	Ricochet

He should've _known_.

Out of all people, he should've been one one to _see_. He shouldn't have been blinded by the deceptively straightforward number, should've dug deeper. Now everything was at stake, and neither Shaw nor Reese were answering their phones. Not that it surprised the genius, he'd anticipated that the electronics would be confiscated. They were going to be in the presence of a rising drug lord by the name of Carl Rashida after all, but that's not what gave his usually steady hands an anxious tremor.

It was the fact that Mr. Rashida _knew_ he was being set up, that the 'deal' he'd agreed to was a trick, and he'd planned accordingly. Harold had inadvertently sent Reese and Shaw right into a death trap, he was to blame if any harm were to befall either of them. His less-then-pleasant thoughts whipped through his mind at dizzying speeds, each one more devastating then the last. For all he knew, they could be dead already. His whole body quaked with a foreign emotion as he hastily dialed Fusco, the man finally accepting the call after the fourth ring.

"What illegal activity do you need me to be an accomplice for _now?"_ His voice was gruff with annoyance, but anything weighing down the detective's shoulders couldn't hold a candle to Harold's current situation. The genius' patience was all dried up, he didn't have time to waste with pleasantries. He would apologize for his brashness at a later date, after he retrieved his companions and made absolutely _certain_ they were in one piece. He briefly entertained the notion that the incident with the Bliss drug had somehow damaged his brain, seeing as he'd overlooked an incriminating phone call detailing the _exact_ way Mr. Rashida's gang organized the ambush his two colleagues were blindly walking into.

"I'm sending you an address, be sure to make it your priority to arrive in a timely manner. I'm certain you'll need your gun detective, our mutual friends have found some trouble." Harold disconnected the call before the befuddled man could utter a word of protest, hastily shedding his jacket and button-up to secure a bullet-proof vest over his torso. He'd been meaning to have John put it's credibility to the test in the field seeing as it was a new design, less bulky and easier to maneuver in. Of course, it had been certified through all tests he'd instructed the designers to complete. He wasn't going to start giving John faulty product, there would be a cold day in hell before that happened.

He snatched up Bear's leash, the dog jolting to attention with a curious head-tilt. The Malinois calmly allowed Finch to attach it onto his collar without a command, but Bear did require an unsteady murmur of dutch to follow Harold out of the library. He hobbled to the car as quickly as he could, opening the door for Bear to hop in before clambering in himself. He didn't even bother with a seat belt, each second he wasted was enough time for either Shaw or Reese to catch a deadly bullet. With this disturbing possibility in mind, his foot pressed the petal down another inch. The drive took longer then he would've liked due to a few cases of bad timing with red lights. 

Thankfully, when Finch arrived to the location, Fusco was already in front of the warehouse. His glock was out and the man himself was crouched behind his vehicle, quickly waving the genius over with his usual grim but determined expression. A canopy of gunshots could be heard inside the building, which meant that at least one of his two coworkers was still breathing. He limped over to the side door, ignoring Fusco's hissed protests as the man was forced to cover him. The detective warily followed him into the warehouse and toward the commotion, quietly grumbling about suicidal millionaires under his breath. The duo knew they were nearing the chaos when the pained shouts and gunshots grew louder, coming out into the main warehouse area.

It appeared luck was on their side, seeing as the two crept out the doorway only to find they were safely hidden from unwanted attention due to a conveniently placed shipment of crates. Harold spotted Reese and Shaw almost immediately, his shoulders slumping in overwhelming relief at the sight of them. Neither appeared to be hurt at first glance, sheltered behind more crates as bullets sent chips of wood flying in every direction. Despite the lack of blood or pain on either of their faces, he still had the unshakable urge to check them both for injuries. The problem with such an itch, was the fact there was a large gap between himself and the duo. His mind whipped through calculations, sparing Fusco a glance when the detective inched around the crate wall to return fire.

"What the- _Finch?"_ Harold's head snapped up from the distance, locking eyes with Shaw's distinctly baffled expression. Reese's form stiffened, but he couldn't afford to stop his assault in order to look at the genius. It could've been a trick of the light but Finch could've sworn he saw John's lip twitch into a brief snarl, but it had been schooled into a ominously blank expression in the time it took the genius to blink so he couldn't be sure. Harold tucked the strange sight away to analyze at a later date, figuring now was as good a time as any to inform them of just how dire the situation was going to get. He was certain that both ex-operatives had shifted at least a portion of their attention to his person, which was to be expected seeing as the two were particularly savage when it came to Finch's well-being. 

"Mr. Reese, Miss Shaw. We need to leave, reinforcements are coming to surround the-oh no." The hair on the Harold's neck stood on end when Bear gave a low and menacing growl from beside the genius. There was only one direction that offered an opportunity for a threat to sneak up, Harold abruptly whirling around to face the door he and Fusco had entered. His blue eyes going wide at the sight of an unfriendly, the subordinate had his rifle aimed at Fusco's turned back. And that just wasn't acceptable, the detective had a child to go home to. This was only _one_ of the factors that ultimately spurred Finch into sidestepping to place himself between Fusco and certain death, the Malinois at his side awaiting instructions with it's teeth bared. The underling merely grinned maliciously, leveling the barrel with Harold's chest. The lackey's finger tightening on the trigger in what his racing mind could only categorize as _slow motion_.

"HAROLD!" John's shout was drowned out by the sound of multiple gunshots, the unexpected impact of the projectile prompted Harold's knees to fold, the air unceremoniously driven from his lungs in the form of a heavy gasp. Finch blinked rapidly as his shooter went down, blood oozing from the hole in the man's temple. Black spots creeping in from the edges of his vision as he unwillingly listed forward, Gravity assisting his abrupt collapse. For a terrifying moment, he thought the bullet had torn right through the vest. He was half convinced that this presumption was false, seeing as the sharp taste of iron on his tongue that usually accompanied getting shot in the chest was absent. But the overwhelming pain valiantly tried to convince him otherwise, that paired with the lack of oxygen was what ultimately did him in.

He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

*** * ***

For a long moment no one moved, Fusco staring at the Finch's unmoving body in abject horror. He was frozen on the spot, bile rising in his throat when Bear whined and nosed at the genius' hand. Rashida's men were still firing, the gunshots turning into white noise. Fusco's eyes drilled into Finch as if his stare alone could somehow rewind time, his throat closing up as the man he'd begrudgingly come to see as a close friend remained lifelessly sprawled on the concrete. Fusco tore his eyes away from the body to gauge John and Shaw's reactions, brows furrowing when he found neither were where he'd last seen them. His numb fingers tightened their grip on the gun, the detective warily leaning around the crates to take a peek at the destruction that no doubt laid ahead.

And he wasn't disappointed, the two ex-operatives were tearing through Rashida's ranks with a viciousness that had Fusco's steel nerves quaking with unease. In the feeble hanging lights, they looked every bit like bloodthirsty demons, silencing pleads and cursing alike with truly grotesque methods. Their clothes and faces were splattered with blood, hands dripping crimson. The last cooling corpse was carelessly tossed to the ground around ten minutes later, and the silence that descended was nothing short of suffocating. Fusco cautiously climbed to his unsteady feet, Finch had said that more would be coming. 

The detective nearly jumped two feet into the air when John called out a dutch command that had the whimpering Malinois rushing to the man's side, the command spat out into the shattered quiet like poison. Fusco definitely _didn't_ flinch at the ex-operatives tone, nope. And he most certainly did _not_ lament as John marched past the detective with all the finesse of a _predator_ , pure and simple. They'd lost a brilliant mind, a friend, everything that was Finch ended with the cruel squeeze of a trigger. He was confusing mix of relieved and furious that the gunman had already been killed, a bullet to the head was too merciful for the bastard. 

Fusco almost wished he could revive the man just to get a few licks in before throwing him to Reese and Shaw, now _that_ was a punishment the scum deserved. He had to look away when Shaw crouched next to the, no doubt, cooling body with a strangely pinched expression twisting her normally blank or angry features into something akin to sorrow. The unusual sight sent a chill down Fusco's spine, affirming the fact that this whole ordeal wasn't just a terrifying nightmare. His shoulders stiffened in startled shock when he heard a wet bark of laughter, head turning so fast something in his neck popped. Shaw had two fingers pressed against Finch's neck, eyes alight with glee. Her dark gaze flicked up and locked onto the detective, lips curling into a smile that showed far too many teeth to feel strictly friendly.

"He's alive."

Those two words had his whole world screeching to a halt, his mind desperately whipping through the series of events to see if he'd missed something. No, Finch was definitely shot in the chest, so how the _hell_ had the genius survived such a thing? All his questions were answered in one fell swoop when Shaw wordlessly opened his coat and carefully unbuttoned his dress-shirt, Reese hovering behind her looking, for all intents and purposes, like an statue. Fusco's eyes widened at the sight of a black vest, and he'd be more then willing to bet his badge that it was a _bullet proof_ one. The bruise would be nasty and he might have damage to his ribs, but Finch was alive and _breathing_ for god's sake. Fusco released a long breath that he hadn't realized he'd even been holding, his churning stomach and humming nerves settling. 

Everything would be okay, giving Finch medical attention and bed rest was much better then the alternative of putting him in a box under an unmarked grave.

A faint shout from outside alerted the trio of Rashida's arriving reinforcements, prompting the three to prepare themselves for the oncoming assault. Getting around them wouldn't be easy, and fighting their way through would be even more risky considering the fact that Finch was currently out of commission. Fusco spared John a hesitant glance when the ex-operative carefully lifted Harold's dead-weight, propping the genius against his hip, a move that mothers used on their young children. The detective frowned, pitying the fools who'd decide it was a good idea to target the man. There was no doubts in Fusco's mind that Reese would be borderline _inhumane_ with his methods to keep Finch safe, the detective allowed himself a moment to rue the mess the man would leave in his wake.

"We don't have the luxury of time, so either incapacitate or drop them. But _no one_ touches Harold." With his piece said, Reese turned away and moved deeper into the warehouse. They'd have to find another way out, maybe even steal one of the numerous vehicles that probably surrounded the building. Fusco jumped when the lights cut out, darkness flooding over them. John and Shaw didn't so much as pause or do something as human as _stumble_. Sometimes he hated how the two seemed so impervious to surprises, like they were brick walls or some shit. The detective startled when Shaw caught his elbow to lead him along, steadying him as he continuously tripped over what he assumed were the various bodies from the ex-operative's earlier rampage. He couldn't see her face, hell, he could even distinguish his hand from the pitch black that'd swallowed them.

The shooting started suddenly and without warning, the flash of the igniting gunpowder was the catalyst to the echoing boom that accompanied the shot. It was all a blur after that, the darkness heightening Fusco's other senses. He could practically _taste_ the tangy gunpowder, the gunshots ringing in his ears. The hair on his arms stood on end as if charged with the palpable tension that threatened to smother his logical thought, and the heat was a completely different monster. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, dripping off his nose. He didn't dare stop pulling the trigger to wipe it away, ignoring how the sweat burned when it slipped into his eyes.

"Move!" Shaw shoved his shoulder, manhandling him into a full-on sprint. He had no idea where they were running to, but it was somewhere that steadily grew brighter. He could see Reese's outline, Shaw taking up the rear to give them cover fire with Bear keeping pace beside her. Fusco's eyes throbbed when John violently kicked a door open, sunlight flooding the hall. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, staying right on Reese's heels as the man made a beeline to the closest vehicle. It was a truck, an older Chevy model by the looks of it. Shaw tried the driver's door and grinned with demonic glee when it swiftly clicked open, she went to work hot-wiring it for their escape.

Reese gently deposited Finch in the back seat with Bear and shut the door so the genius didn't catch any more bullets before crouching down next to Fusco to aim his confiscated heavy artillery at the door they'd just exited, hands steady and breaths even. After what felt like an eternity later with no signs of Rashida's goons, the truck roared to life. The trio briskly piled in, Reese rolling down the passenger widow in order to lean most of his upper body out and drop the lackeys that rushed out of the warehouse in a vain attempt to stop them. Fusco was all-too-happy to put the warehouse in the rear-view mirror, slumping further into his seat with a loud exhale of relief. Finch's feet had been hastily relocated to the detective's lap to accommodate Fusco's presence, and he'd be lying if he said the heat that the genius exuded wasn't comforting.

"We're not out of the woods yet, we got incoming." Fusco groaned, twisting to glare at the jeep that was quickly eating up the road between them. John's face might as well have been steel with how expressionless he was, sharp blue eyes assessing the rapidly closing distance. Fusco balked when Reese proceeded to precariously shove his torso out the window for a second time to line up a shot, cursing darkly when Shaw swerved around a Sudan. She floored it down a merging ramp, practically flying onto the highway at dangerous speeds. John was jostled so much that Fusco feared the man would topple out the window and meet certain death, but Reese merely braced a hand on the window frame until they were smoothly cruising in the mostly empty lane.

"What the heavens are you doing Mr. Reese?" Fusco never thought he'd miss that familiar low baritone of their employer so much, the detective leveling Finch's puzzled face with a crooked smile. John roughly reared back, retreating into the relative safety of the vehicle at the groggy inquiry. Reese's finger twitched in a telling way, Fusco was sure the man wanted nothing more then to reach out and touch. The detective was lucky in that regard, seeing as the genius' legs were propped onto his lap. Fusco opened his mouth to protest when Finch timidly attempted to sit up, the detective jolting when a sharp crack resonated through the interior, followed by the back wind-shield spontaneously shattering.

John lurched forward and planted a hand onto Finch's shoulder to push him flat on his back, mindful of his fused spine. Reese's other hand shot up to take aim like the crack-shot he was and relentlessly squeezed the trigger. The armed passenger took at least four bullets to the chest, John practically climbing into the backseat to brace his rifle out the broken wind-shield, which significantly reduced the kick-back. The ex-operative's knee was snugly nestled against Finch's side, his other leg planted in the empty space between the genius' thighs. His ankle occasionally brushed against Fusco's hip as Shaw maneuvered them through traffic and the detective found that the reckless driving bothered him more then the accidental physical contact.

"Neither of you were hit?" John's terse question gave Fusco pause, he hadn't expected any sort of concern from Reese that pertained to the detective's own safety. The ex-operative's genuine worry was a pleasant surprise nonetheless, and very much appreciated. He shook his head, glancing at Finch to catch his hissed denial. The rough treatment had mostly definitely aggravated his bruised chest, John's piercing gaze was a headache-inducing mix of guilty and relieved. Bullets pinged off the metal frame, spurring John out of his intense staring. The jeep swerved when one of John's shots hit their front left tire, forcing them to pull back.

*** * ***

Finch focused on breathing through the liquid fire that flared through his chest with every inhale, it was a sharp throbbing ache that fogged his brain with pain. He was tempted to ask for medical attention, but their focus was on loosing any tail that might be in league with Rashida. Their lack of panic informed Harold that he wasn't fatally wounded, but he had a vague memory that involved having a gun aimed at him. His left hand snaked up to tuck under his unbuttoned shirt, brows raising when the tips of his fingers brushed over a vest of some sort. Memories surged forward with a vengeance that had his stomach rolling, the bullet-proof material explained the biting pain pulsing from the center of his chest. He _had_ been shot, and he'd most certainly be dead if he hadn't been wearing it.

It suddenly occurred to Finch that no one had been aware that he'd even put the vest on, his wary eyes immediately moved to John in the wake of this unsettling revelation. Outwardly, Reese looked as cool as a cucumber, but Harold could spot the subtle tells that told a different story. The way his anxious ice blue eyes scanned the highway every few seconds, his grip on the assault rifle white-knuckle tight. He stayed stubbornly rooted in his position above the genius even though the danger had most-certainly passed. The arrangement of limbs prevented Harold from sitting up. Reese had efficiently placed himself between Harold and any other life-threatening metal projectiles, the genius pressed his lips into a thin line.

It hadn't been his intention to traumatize the ex-operative seeing as Reese had been through plenty already. It appeared that Finch had made, not one, but _two_ grave miscalculations today.

"ETA to the safehouse?" Harold startled out of his thoughts at John's rough question, he grit his teeth against the pain that was intent of crippling his logical thought. Black dots peppered Finch's vision, but he stubbornly blinked them away. "Twenty minutes unless another problem decides to show up." Was Shaw's swift reply, eyes fixed on the stretch of road in front of her. Reese hummed, gaze flicking to Fusco when the detective squeezed himself out of the back and into the passenger seat. Only seconds after Fusco had settled and buckled in, Shaw turned a little too sharply to get around a minivan. Unless Harold wanted to slid across the seat and hit his head on the door, he'd have to keep himself in place. So Finch threw a hand out, his fingers curling around something soft but firm.

Harold's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when Finch saw just _what_ part of Reese he'd grabbed. Finch felt his face heat as he stared down at his traitorous appendage, which was wrapped around the majority of John's thigh. His fingers were no more the _three inches_ away from the ex-operative's behind, that less-then-platonic thought had Harold jerking his hand away as if burned. John seemed less then caring about the genius' accidental groping, more focused on his task of looking out for trouble. Finch was relieved that Reese acted like it was nothing but another, steadily growing part, twisted into such a tight knot that Harold felt mildly claustrophobic. So he focused on the throb in his ribcage instead, his hands limp at his sides.

They were turning off the highway after a few more miles, heading into the denser traffic of the city. Harold was a little confused, there were no safehouses in this area. The only building he owned that was close by was Reese's apartment...oh. Finch was sure that John'd probably turned his resting place into nothing short of a fortress, not to mention the sheer amount of weapons Harold knew the ex-operative had stashed throughout the apartment. His educated guess was proven to be correct when she pulled to a stop as close to the door that lead into Reese's flat as she could, Harold was about to protest against leaving the truck out in the open but Shaw spoke first.

"Take Finch in, Bear and I are gonna go dump the truck." John nodded, carefully climbing out when Fusco opened the door near Harold's feet. It was a slow process, but the genius was heavily leaning his weight against the detective as John shut the door after eight minutes of misery. His ears felt like he'd stuffed cotton in them, barely registering a faraway voice asking if he was alright. The tone was a familiar rumble that acted like a balm to Harold's vibrating nerves, and he was too tired to lie so he shook his head, fighting the bout of nausea the movement brought. Finch squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through his mouth, valiantly trying to tune into the low conversation happening right next to him. He couldn't make out the words, but it was clear both parties were worried about something. Finch's lips moved, but he couldn't hear what came out.

He was so tired.

"Okay Harold, don't worry. I got you, go ahead and rest." Finch had never heard sweeter words in his life, nodding vigorously. The voice tugged at something his muzzy brain, a name. It was lost under layers of exhaustion, and the genius was sure the name would come back after his nap. He made a small sound of surprise when he was unceremoniously lifted off solid ground, carelessly tossing an arm around broad shoulders. His other limb remained limp, swaying in time with the person's steps. He could make out the sound of keys and whispering voices, but he ignored them in favor of sinking deeper into that floating sensation. He was placed on something warm and soft, the soothing scent cocooning him in overwhelming calm. The smell of pine, gunpowder, and wet grass solidified the certainty that he was safe now, he didn't know why he was so sure of that, but he was.

He submitted when the waves of sleep crash over him, pulling him under.


End file.
